Lacrimosa: Grant Them Eternal Rest
by Comidia Del Arte
Summary: I am, Bianca Faun, 34 years old and an underpaid Coroner; whom the Rogues refer to as 'Ms. Undertaker.' And I' am a friend to those passed on.
1. Introductions

Don't ask me why I took up this job, don't even start, ok! It's the absolute worst job any moron can have in Gotham city… And for some reason I just happened to be very good at diagnosing death … Ha, that's hilarious! Diagnosing death, it sounds like I'm talking about a curable disease.

I've lived in Gotham for most of my life. My hometown is Narrows; I was given an education in the worst possible place, a school only known as Gotham High, and my description of it being the worst possible place is hardly an exaggeration. That school had random locker checks once a week. Students had to pass through a metal detector just to get on campus. Half the population already had ties to the underbelly of Gotham. As I said before, a nasty place to receive an education.

After high school, I went right to college. And that was where I excelled. I aimed to work my ass off in college for four years, focusing on human biology. My mother was a nurse, and ever since I was child I idolized her. She always wanted to be a doctor. And that had been my goal, so I got to work, intent on getting into the highest rated medical school in the nation.

But, living in the Narrows was difficult. Paying for college was complicated; my mother was laid off a year into my education. So I started to look for jobs, so as to pay the quickly rising expenses. After leaving my human anatomy class, I stopped at the college billboard. Posters and notifications for jobs littered the thing.

Nothing seemed interesting, until my eyes fell on an advertisement pinned just at the edge of the board. Curious, I picked it up and scanned in carefully. In fancy lettering it read

_Fascinated in human anatomy? Are you the kind of person people come to in a time of great need? Do you set your own emotions aside to help others? Well, than this job is perfect for you._

_Interested?_

_Call this number:_

_588-343-0839_

_Ask for Undertaker Rollick_

It had been such a strange advertisement for an assistant. I suppose that is why I called Jamie Rollick and told him I was interested is being his apprentice. The fact that I got the job wasn't surprising; no one else had called about the position. Even after I explained that I was taking this job to pay the bills. Rollick didn't care, he was old, and he needed someone to take over his business. There were many Undertakers in Gotham, and Rollick was the best in the business, and he'd be dammed before he lost his title.

So through most of college, I worked as Rollick's apprentice. I'm not kidding about the title of my job; I was literally referred to as a Mortician's Apprentice. There should seriously be a book or movie about that; it would make a good horror film or something.

Anyway, so I managed to pay for all my schooling. Rollick was a good man, and he paid me more than was required of him. He knew my dreams. At times I think he secretly hoped that I would give of my pursuits of becoming Dr. Bianca Faun. But my mind was set, until something came up, which changed my whole career path.

It was on a gloomy autumn day when the body came in. Rollick was told that the woman committed suicide, so said the rope bruises on her neck. But I wasn't convinced, I don't recall why, but something just didn't feel right. I became obsessed with the woman's past. Nothing about her said 'suicide.' She grew up wealthy, was married with 2 beautiful kids. She had a history of bi-polar; the cops claimed she went off her medication.

So, the night before we prepared the body for burial, I did a very quick exam. I ended up finding traces of her medication. This convinced me something was terribly wrong, I began to look at the rope markings on her neck. Finding something off, I had seen suicide cases, and they all were very similar.

The bruises on her neck were not the usual V shaped black and blues I was accustom to seeing in a suicide. They were slightly V shaped, but still it was off. They also seemed very dark. Finally, I figured it was time to call the police.

A month later, a pathologist at Gotham PD confirmed my suspicions. About a week after the diagnosis, a suspect was found (a corrupt cop), and was later convicted. My detective work made the news, but that only lasted in the public for a couple days. By the end of the week it was nothing worth mentioning to the community.

However, it attracted the attention of my professor at medical school. He called me into his office, and inquired as to whether I was curious about the idea of becoming a forensic pathologist. And that was the beginning of my career. I went into medical school with the intent to become a normal Doctor, and I graduated, only to spend 2 year in a pathology fellowship. I also took several internships with the local Coroner

After a little more than 15 years of schooling, I graduated, and almost immediately received a job with Gotham PD. All in all, it sounds like one hell of a perfect life. Oh, it all went swimmingly until I took the job and examined my first Gotham Rouge victim. Let me tell you, I had never thrown up during an autopsy that is until I had a look at Joker's latest piece of 'art.'

I puked twice, trust me, you would too after seeing the shit Joker does with his playthings. He's one fucked up pretzel. That was the day I regretted throwing away 15 years of my life to play doctor to the dead. I'm in my early 30's and I've done almost nothing but diagnose the rising death toll in our fair Gotham, all in all it's rather depressing. I'm just grateful that I managed to graduate high school a year early.

I've also managed to gain a few enemies. In the years that I've worked, I've managed to piss off some very powerful criminals. Now any idiot in my position knew the risks of taking a job like this. It's actually in the job description that you will possibly make some enemies. For example, rich father is found dead by the pool, his children are convinced that it's the blonde 20 year old bimbo girl friend that did it, turns out dear old Dad committed suicide. In the end you have a bunch of very angry family members who are seriously considering suing your ass. It can get pretty nasty sometimes.

Going back to the issue of the head criminals in Gotham, well that's pretty self explanatory. They can't afford more homicide charges on their long, long, long list of crimes. Despite the fact that they have really good lawyers to keep themselves out of jail, it annoys them that I continuously drag their asses into court when I come up with enough evidence to charge them.

All in all I really fucking hate my life, and I wish I had stayed the course to become a quote on quote 'normal' doctor. So here I am, Bianca Faun, 34 years old and an underpaid Coroner; whom the Rogues refer to as 'Ms. Undertaker.' And I' am a friend to those passed on.


	2. Therapy Sessions

There were several words that could describe how I felt today. Here are a few, exhausted, annoyed, pissed off. Ok I admit, 'pissed off' is not a single word. But that's how I felt. Today did not start well, for one I spilled really hot coffee on my last clean shirt, right as I was leaving to go to a therapy session. So I had to go back inside and change. Its laundry week and I hadn't made it to the Laundromat just yet. So here I am, walking into the entrance hall of a very posh building, wearing a black shirt which read "Gotham Museum's Dead Body Exhibit 2009."

Not the best attire to wear in front of a bunch of people paying thousands to avoid insanity. But it was either that, or the shirt I wore when I went bar hopping for the first and last time about a year ago. As you have probably guessed, I don't have much of a social life. I've only ever had one long term boyfriend, and the only reason I lost my virginity was due to the fact that he got me very, very drunk. It also wasn't him who got me in the sac, it was his best friend. The whole "relationship" went up in flames after that. I'm not gonna lie though; it had been one kinky experience. I'm talking being tied to the bed and all that nonsense.

Anyway, I seem to be rambling. You may be wondering why I'm in therapy. One of my employees ended up having an emotional break down during an autopsy of one of Joker's victims. Ergo, Commissioner Gordon decided that all pathologists working with Gotham P.D are asked to undergo a therapy session each month. It's no required per say, but it keeps Gordon from breathing down my neck, and from worrying that I might suddenly start wearing a costume and go around robbing banks.

At times I think Gordon has this impression that I have this whole 'Queen of the Dead' persona. I think he worries that I may become so obsessed with my life occupation that I'll suddenly snap and develop necrophilia and start boinking the corpses. All things considered, it may just be my over active imagination with a combination of my twisted humor. Which is something one requires in my line of work, humor I mean, not an over active imagination, that is just a head ache wrapped in a migraine.

So, all stories under the bridge, here I am. 'Dead Body Exhibit' t-shirt and all, I actually earned a few bizarre looks from the people going in and out of the building.

As a precaution, I'm required to walk through a metal detector. Therapists in Gotham tend be targeted quite a lot. Surprise, surprise; well not really, at times it seems like everyone is Gotham goes bat shit crazy at some point, almost as if there is a ticking time bomb of insanity just waiting to go off, just waiting for that one bad day.

Shaking my head of this nonsense, I ran to get to the elevator before it closed on me. After telling the woman next to the keypad that I was aiming for the fourth floor, I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes for a moment. Feeling the elevator shudder to a halt, I opened my eyes and exited the elevator.

It didn't take me long to find Dr. Scott's office, I'd been doing sessions with her since last year. So I obviously knew this place like the back of my hand …..Well not the entire building, just the fourth floor. Reaching the door to Janine's office, I was about to go inside, but I stayed my hand, realizing that there were voices coming from inside. She was probably wrapping up another session. So, I knocked on the door.

The door swung open after about a minute or two. "Sorry Janine, I hope I'm not disturbing another se…." The apology seemed to die as it left my mouth. The blood in my veins froze instantly; as I locked eyes with a pair of cold set blues. I blinked a couple times; I knew those eyes all too well. "Dr. Bianca Faun, it's been a while hasn't it?"

That voice ran down my spine like ice cold water. "Mr. Crane" The rest of my sentence lodged itself in my throat. Crane had always made me uneasy, even before I knew about his obsession with fear. His lips fixed themselves into a sneer. "That's Dr. Crane."

Taking a breath, I had regained a sense of self. Smirking I stabbed. "After your arrest you lost that title."

I could tell I had struck a nerve; Crane had always been very full of himself. He was also a very dangerous enemy. Before Crane unleashed "Fear Night" on Gotham, I was one of the few who knew how twisted he was. For almost a year I was receiving a plethora of bodies from Arkham Asylum. All of them had been suicide cases. While examining the bodies I found traces of some sort of foreign substance. In a sense, I broke the law by withholding evidence from the police, but that had been a dangerous time for asking questions that involved people in power, people like Crane.

I called in a favor from a friend of mine, who I became close with in college. She had been pursuing a career as a botanist last we spoke. I sent a sample of the substance to her, and she said it was a chemical made from a very rare flower located in the Himalayas. She explained it released a very strange and potent hallucinogenic when burned. Later she tested the hallucinogen on a couple lab rats. Needless to say the rodents went insane with fear.

After gaining knowledge of the chemical found in my 'patients' I confronted Dr. Crane on the matter. He was not very happy that I had discovered his dark little secret. That night I was attacked by a couple of thugs while taking the tram home. To this day I am grateful that I was carrying a sample of Crane's fear toxin.

It had been 3 years last week since I had last seen Crane, until now that is. Swallowing his rage, Crane looked me up and down. I gapped; the sick fuck was actually checking me out. "You haven't changed a bit Bianca." His voice was different, somehow rougher. I had heard rumors about Crane developing a second personality to deal with the blow of loosing basically all status after 'Fear Night.' I guess the rumors were true.

Blinking a few times, my throat dry, I croaked "Scarecrow?"

Crane smiled, removing his glasses, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and began the process of nonchalantly cleaning his glasses. I stared at him, at a complete loss. Putting his glasses back on, Crane smirked "I'll see you around Ms. Faun, seeing that we both see the same therapist." That said, he turned and left; acting as if nothing had happened; as if his whole demeanor had not changed in a matter of a second and then returned to normal.


	3. Execution Style

Shivering at the thought of Crane's cold eyes, I closed the door behind me. With the click of the door I was greeted by the warm voice of my therapist and friend Dr. Janine Scott. "Bianca, hey I almost forgot that you were coming in today." Taking a seat, I gave her a rare smile. "I can see why. I wasn't aware Crane was in the process of being 'rehabilitated.'"

Janine sighed, as she finished adding some last minute notes to Crane's file. "Happened last week, everyone thought it best to let him out quietly. According to Hugo at Arkham, he's fit to be among the masses."

Shaking my head, I laid my head back into the chair. "I have to admit I don't envy you right now."

Janine smiled, but within a second she was all business. Time for my psychological evaluation "So, I wasn't aware that you and Crane knew each other."

Leaning forward, I poured myself a glass of water from the pitcher next to me. "Before he was committed to Arkham, I had to work with him. Son of a bitch kept sending me his expired victims. I grew suspicious, did some very throe autopsies, found something strange, did some research, confronted him, and he attempted to shut me up."

Janine wrote down what I had told her, taking her time. Finishing her last sentence, she glanced up at me. "Would you mind telling me what he said to you outside my office?"

Shrugging I relayed our pleasantries, leaving out the weird change in Crane. Rolling her eyes, Janine changed the subject to the topic of work. Asking me about any resent nightmares, or any particular cases that bothered me. As usual I remained cool and calculated. Showing that I was everything but unstable, well in the medical point of view.

All in all I was in and out within the hour; despite the fact that these sessions were fairly short. I despised them, especially today. I hardly slept last night, due to a combination of nightmares and working late. Sometimes I think that even though I'm hardly squeamish or terrified of my job, a part of my brain still retains the natural instinct to fear death as well as the dead themselves.

Despite the fact that these nightmares cause me to wake up screaming almost every night, I don't let Dr. Scott in on them unless they are been particularly horrifying. Making it to my car, I unlocked it and got inside. Looking at the review mirror I began to pull my dark brown hair into a very messy bun. Once that was taken care of, I dug through my purse and fished out a pair of olive green horned rim glasses.

I only ever wear these monsters at work and while driving. I don't need them all the time. Putting them on, I used my middle finger to push it up my nose into the right spot. Not the best finger to use, it got me in trouble a lot in middle school as I recall.

Once I finished 'prettying' myself, I turned the car on, shifted into reverse and pulled out of the parking spot. I hate early morning sessions during the week days. Right after them I had to go to work, and today I was stuck with a bunch of snot nosed medical students. At this moment in time I regret ever telling my old professor that if he needed a favor all he to do was ask. It had to be the most idiotic offer ever, because now every Tuesday, I'm stuck teaching his students how to play 'Operation Dead Edition.' I swear sometimes I am way too nice for my own good.

It took about 40 minutes to make it to the city Morgue in the upper side of Gotham. Stepping out of the car, I grabbed my lab coat. It was a gloomy October day in Gotham; it looked like it was about ready to start pouring. Shrugging, I walked up the steps and went into the Morgue.

I was greeted by a rather fat man sitting behind the front desk. "Morning Fred, how's the wife."

Fred looked up from his 'book.' I say that with such sarcasm because he is too stupid to read anything that isn't porn. It wouldn't surprise me if he dismantled the book to hold his stash from his wife. Giving me a rather greasy smile, he looked me up and down. The man had been with the same woman for too long. "She's out of town."

That had suggestive written all over it. Pulling my lab coat on, I walked into the main part of the building. Before closing the door I called over my shoulder. "When the med students arrive, call me!"

I wasn't the least bit surprised to find my Morgue technician, Markus preparing a new arrival for autopsy. Smiling, I pulled on a pair of gloves and went to stand opposite him. Before us laid the body of Jerry Rade, a former goon of Maroni's, who was suppose to testify against his boss in court next week. I examined his body for only a moment the night before. Being a Coroner, I'm on call 24/7. But I couldn't get to Jerry last night because the Morgue was overrun with cadavers that required autopsies and careful inspection. I managed to get to bed at around 3 am this morning

Markus glanced up at me. "How was therapy?"

Grabbing a scalpel from the operating table, I twirled it around my fingers. "Pointless and stupid, how was your morning?"

At that he smirked. "Better than yours, my daughter told me she is on Honor Role." Walking around the body, I muttered a 'congratulations.' Lifting up the head of the cadaver, I inspected the bullet holes in the skull. Gesturing for Mark to take notes I voiced my thoughts. "This was obviously an execution, wouldn't surprise me if it was Maroni's goons, they've been sending us bodies all week."

Nodding, Mark wrote down everything I said. Biting my lower lip, I inspected the bullet holes closely. "There were two shooters, judging by the level that the bullets entered and where they exited, they had this fellah on his knees… Alright let's cut the sucker open."

Despite the obvious nature of the man's death, I was still required to give him a full on autopsy. Within about an hour or two, Mark and I finished our work. While Mark was busy cleaning some of the bodily fluids and what not from the floor, I stitched up the cadaver. While doing this I had a recorder set up. So as to multi-task, "Subject died at around 12 am this morning, cause of death is illustrated by the two bullet holes entering through the back of the head and out the eye sockets. He died instantly; the fashion in which he was killed is a classic execution involving only two shooters and the subject kneeling on the ground, illustrated by the angle at which the bullets entered, as well as the crisscrossing through the head before exiting through the eye sockets. Subject's name is Jerry Rade, he has a history of working as a goon for Salvatore Maroni, and he was also going to testify in court next week against Sal on the charge of illegal human trafficking. The time is now 9 am, Tuesday morning. This is Dr. Faun and I verify all that was said on this recording."

By around 9:30 am, everything for Jerry's case was taken care of. I made sure his immediate family had been informed of their lose last night. I also scheduled for a mortician to come by and pick Jerry up to prepare him for his funeral.

Removing my bloodied gloves, I tossed them into the hazardous bin, and then I washed my hands. I didn't have a ton to do right now since I managed to go through all over our cadaver's early this morning. So for the moment I had until 10:30 for a breather.

Going into my office, I rummaged through the small fridge across from my desk and pulled out a to-go box of Yakasobie noodles. Snagging a fork from my desk drawer, I sat down and dug in; wolfing down the food while I still had time.


	4. Glasgow Smiles and Sliced HA's

"This 'patient' was the victim of a rather nasty robbery. The subject was of Indian descent, he was fifty years of age and he was a corner shop owner; which is where the crime happened. As you can see, after looking closely at the state of the body, there is an indication that our dead friend put up quite the struggle. Looking at the hands, you can find traces of evidence that he fired a gun before he croaked, which can be deduced by the marking and bruising from the slight kick back."

Glancing up at the University students, I looked them over individually as they all took in the cadaver in their own special ways. Some looked slightly sick to their stomach, and others could only stare in awe. From what I deduced after observing this class once every week, only two or three students present had the stomach to deal with the land of the dead. The rest of the class would either go into the medical field to become the usual doctors and nurses, while the remaining would attempt to work in morgues, only to figure out they could not stomach the job.

I allowed the students about 10 minutes to take notes and study the cadaver. Pushing the body drawer closed I continued to walk forward, my back to the students. Today was one of those winged class sessions. I had no idea where I was going with the lesson today "Are we going to the look at any of the Rogues' victims!"

The voice jumped out of the horde of students, as bold as you please. You always had that one student, that one person who was looking for a challenge. Turning on my heel, my eyes searched the group of learners. They darted around from behind my glasses, jumping from face to face. The silence lay thick in the room, so much so that my old college professor shifted uncomfortably in the back of the group. Finally the culprit of the question stepped forward. "So are we?"

The student was possibly in his early 20's maybe younger. His hair was bleached blonde and stylishly unkempt. The clothes he wore consisted of a pair of clean cut jeans, and a black t-shirt with the classic Misfits Crimson Ghost, however there was something off. The ghost had been semi vandalized; its mouth was adorned with a crimson clown smile and at the lower hem of the shirt it read. 'Why so serious.'

So, I had a Joker fan in my midst. This punk ass must have a death wish or something. He was either going to be murdered by Joker or pissed of Misfits fans. Neither of which would be pleasant death. The boy began to weaken under my steady gaze. "You will not be looking at those until the end of the year."

This angered him, causing him to gain his balls back. "Why can't we see them now? We can handle it!" At this he gestured toward his fellow classmates, some nodded while other remained rooted to the spot, not wanting to be part of the confrontation. Looking back at me he smiled smugly, taking my lack of a response as a sign of victory.

Smirking, I shook my head, and removed my glasses. I found that taking the barrier of glass from my eyes made a better impression; it was a good scare tactic. Unlike Crane's ice blue eyes. Mine were dark brown, so dark that at times people couldn't spot the pupils in the midst of the irises. Raising an eyebrow I asked calmly. "What's your name kid?" He didn't expect such a common question. "Huh?"

Rolling my eyes I barked. "Your name, what's your name?" Nodding he replied. "Seth Rivers"

Nodding, I twirled my glasses between my fingers. "What makes you think that you could stomach the work of the Rogue's Gallery?"

He could see that I was challenging him. Seth wouldn't take it in front of his peers. "I watch the news and I've seen pictures of many of the victims."

Pursing my lips, I sighed gesturing to Seth's t-shirt, "I see you are a fan of the Joker' work."

Looking down at his shirt, Seth flushed slightly. It was as if no one had ever asked him why he had such a foolish shirt in the first place. Joker did not like his fans, to worship that clown like a drooling fan girl was like signing your own death warrant. Seeing that Seth wasn't going to say anything I continued. "People like you do not belong in the world of forensic pathology; do you want to know why?"

Again he said nothing, but I noticed his peers were listening intently. Taking their eagerness as a cue, I went on. "Because, a pathologist should not idolize the killers who send them corpses, especially when those crazy fucks are deemed mentally unfit, and gallivant across the city in costume like its fucking Halloween or something. You can't fawn over the Rogues because they like to kill; they like to listen to their victims scream. When you start to examine bodies, you do it with the intent to gain evidence and knowledge of how to put the ones responsible behind bars. And if the crime is disgusting and severe enough, under the needle."

The class was silent and solemn, but Seth was still intent to challenge my ruling. "That doesn't mean we can't handle seeing the Rogues' victims!"

Narrowing my eyes, I looked at the Professor Ackerman. Making a decision, I looked at the class at large. Putting my glasses back on, I stuffed my hands into the deep recesses of my lab coat. Raising my voice I called. "Anyone who thinks they have the stomach to look at a Rogue victim please step forward, and join Mr. Rivers at the front."

At my request, three other students came forward. Two were masculine boys, and the other was a frail girl. To anyone she looked like she was the type pass out at the merest trace of blood. But I saw something promising in her. Nodding, I glanced at the Professor, calling over the students' heads. "Professor Ackerman, would you please hold down the fort while I take these four to the other room!"

Not awaiting a reply, I turned and walked toward a separate part of the morgue. Opening the door, I shepherded the students inside. Closing it, I walked toward the cadaver cabinet against the left wall. Going to one drawer in particular I waited for the four brave (or rather foolish) students to stand on the opposite side. Truth be told, the body was not as sickening as it had been when it came in a couple days ago. After performing the autopsy I did some un-required work, and cleaned it up. Looking from face to face, I took the handle of the drawer and pulled, bringing out the sheet covered body. With careful hands I pulled the sheet away from the cadaver.

Almost instantly, Seth's eyes widened, his cheeks flushed to a shade of green. Then he turned away and promptly vomited on the floor. He had not expected such atrocity and evil. The cadaver was now cold and bloodless, but the cuts on the body were still terrible. The victim's name had been Rebecca Faust; a 25 year old woman, with beautiful blue eyes and naturally blonde hair. Both of those features were retained, even in death. But her once olive colored skin was marred with chop shop butchery. Every inch of her body was adorned with Joker's classic HA's. Not even her vaginal area was left clean. Rebecca's once beautiful face was dismantled by a Glasgow smile. The horrifying carvings would never heal over, the best I could do was stitch it up as carefully as possible.

I stood in silence, letting the students take in the horror of Joker's work. The two remaining men were clutching each other for support. Within in a second, one of them had passed out on the floor. The only girl in the group remained impassive, though her cheeks were tinted with a light shade of sickening green.

Nodding with simple satisfaction at putting Mr. Rivers in his place, I covered Rebecca up and returned her to the peaceful solitude of the cadaver drawer. Going to the fainted boy, I managed to wake him. Helping him up, I nodded toward his buddy. "Would you mind?"

Seeing what I meant, I was relieved of what felt like 200 pounds of almost dead weight. The two boys left the room, white as ghosts. Looking over at Seth, who was kneeling on the ground before the pool of his own sick, I went over to him. Going down to his level, I put my hand on his shoulder. You couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor boy. Looking at me, he seemed like a lost child. Rubbing his back like a mother would, I stated. "You can't idolize something that would hurt a person like that. Do you understand?"

Slowly he nodded, he was still shaking, both weak and terrified. Nodding I patted his back. "Good, now go clean yourself up, and when you get home tonight, trash the shirt."

With my help, Seth managed to get back on his feet. After I told him where the bathroom was, he went on his way. Shaking my head, I looked at the remaining student. "What's your name?"

She seemed slightly terrified. Realizing why, I chuckled. "Don't worry; I'm not going to show you another Rogue cadaver today." Nodding, she replied "Lydia Burg."

Smiling, I steered her out of the room, and back to her peers. "Well Lydia, kudos to you for not getting sick or passing out."

Returning to the med. students with Lydia in tow, I was instantly confronted by Ackerman. Grabbing my arm, he led me to a more secluded area. Turning on me, he hissed "Why would you do that to my students?"

Fixing him with a glare I replied "Because that Rivers needed a cold splash of reality. Do you have any idea how many idiots come in here because they hero worshiped the Rogues?"

Ackerman fell silent. Crossing my arms over my chest I went on. "These kids need to learn that this job is not a walk in the park. It requires a cast iron stomach and the ability to discern between right and wrong. Working in a city like this makes the requirements even more vital, tenfold!"

The Professor nodded. "Still, you could have shown them a picture or something."

Rolling my eyes I countered. "Pictures don't always illustrate the full impact of the suffering these people went through. These kids are going to see the inner workings of hell when they leave college. They might as well get a look at it now."


	5. Unpleasent Surprises

The day carried on into the night, and by then my eyes were weak with the want of sleep. The evening had been calm, no horrendous murders, no horribly maimed cadavers passed through the doors of the Morgue. Much to my relief, this meant I could go home, shed my clothes, take a shower, put clean pajamas on, feed the neighborhood stray cat, make myself dinner, and watch some T.V. Even now as I finished filling out the remaining paper work for the evening, I sighed with longing.

Signing one more document, I stood up, filed it, and left my office. It was pitch black outside. Looking up at the street lamp, I shivered. It must have burnt out. Thank God I parked close to the building, or I would end up on the 11 o'clock news. Just because the morgue wasn't in the Narrows didn't mean that it was safe at night. It was freezing, even though I only spent ten minutes outside, I was shivering by the time I got in my car and blasted the heat.

It took about twenty minutes to get home, which was a welcomed thing. I chose my apartment for that particular reason. That and it wasn't in the Narrows, once I managed to get enough money, I moved off that shitty little crime infested island. My mother still lives there, so that situation combined with the crime there, I can't avoid it. Even though I offered to pay half her rent for a new place, she refuses. Her logic is lost to me, every time I attempt to make a point on her moving, she states "I'm a nurse Bianca, I want to be in a place where I can help the ones who need it."

You see, I've never felt that sense of responsibility. I have little regard for strangers…Unless they're dead; I suppose this has something to do with my lack of friends in high school and college. People are always out for themselves, and I'm no different. My needs always come first, unless you're my mother. It's required that I respect her because one; she brought me into this world, and two; she has no one else to look to.

Pulling into my parking space, I turned off the car and got out. Making my trek up the stairs to apartment 120, I rummaged through my purse to find my keys. Refrain from asking me why I don't keep my apartment keys with my car keys; I think it's just laziness. Hearing a familiar jingle, I smiled and attempted to pull them out, only to find them tangled into the dismantled fabric of the purse. "Oh fuck, come on." I whispered in irritation. Getting a better grip on the key ring, I pulled harder. With an obnoxious rip, the key came free, slipping from my hand as it did so.

With a hard *clank* the key fell onto the floor. Rubbing my eyes, I knelt down to pick it up. "Bloody little shit" I mumbled as I swept it up off the floor. Hearing the shuffling of feet, I glanced up. In front of me was a pair of well polished black men's dress shoes.

Shrugging, I drew up from my crouched position. The face that greeted me almost made me job my key. My mouth opened several times wanting to exclaim distaste, but no words came out. Fear crawled up my spine like a great ugly spider. "Dr. Faun."

His voice was calm, but not that it was calming to hear. If anything it terrified me. Taking a deep breath, I moved to stand up. "Crane… What're you doing here?"

Looking him up and down, I noticed he had a ring of keys in hand. My stomach plummeted to my feet in two seconds flat. I dreaded the answer I knew I would receive. Raising my eyebrow in an amused fashion, he replied. "I just moved into apartment 121."

My eyes went to size of dinner plates at the confirmation of my dreaded assumption. "Oh" that was the only intelligent reply I could muster 'smooth B, you're on a real role of displaying intelligence.' Crane smirked, finding my lack response thoroughly entertaining, chauvinistic ass that he is. "Indeed, so you and I are neighbors."

I couldn't fight back my snarky remark. "Oh yes, maybe you could come over and I could braid your hair and paint your nails."

With raised eyebrows, Crane tapped the side of his glasses. "I'm sensing some tension."

My eyes narrowed and my lower lip jutted out slightly open, revealing my bottom teeth. According to my mother all the women in the Faun family had this angry look. "You sent two Falcone goons to kill me."

To my utter astonishment, Crane looked ashamed of my accusation. "Yes, you're correct, and I apologize. I regret doing such a thing."

I didn't buy it; ok I'll admit he had me for a couple minutes. But the faces of the Arkham patients came to mind. Even though they had taken their own lives, that didn't let Crane off the hook, I remembered the frozen fear in their eyes as they faced their ultimate terrors. Crane had been the one who put them in such a place, no sane man would ever commit those kinds of acts. By the time every single one of Crane's victims came to mind, I was fuming. Like I stated before, I had no regard for strangers when they were alive, but when they were dead, my heart bled for them.

Sneering, I brushed a strand of hair from my face. Turning to the door of my apartment, I shoved the key into the lock and unlocked the door. Before I closed the door, I spared Crane one last look. "You are full of shit." That said, I closed the door and latched all four locks on the door, ensuring my safety.

Turning, I went to hang my bag and lab coat on my coat rack. Right next to it stood a mirror. Staring into it, I confirmed silently that I looked like hell. Lack of sleep had caused unsightly bags under my eyes, and my glasses magnified the imperfection. My shoulder length black hair had long ago fallen from its neat and tidy bun. I noticed that my face was lightly wetted by cold sweat; I figured it was from my second encounter with Crane, the man had a way about him that made me want to not look at him, especially in the eyes.

Groaning, I made my way towards the bathroom. It only took a very short amount of time for me to strip and hop into the shower. It felt absolutely fantastic. The hot water caressed my whole body, carrying all the stresses of the day down the drain. Grabbing my blue loofa and vanilla scented body wash. Lathering the body wash onto the loofa, I sighed in content. Vanilla always had a way of calming me down, it smelled fantastic and tasted just as good (not the body wash of course.)

I was in the shower for about forty minutes, and what a wonderful forty minutes it was. Stepping out of the shower, I snagged my black fluffy towel and wrapped myself in it. I felt great, completely revived. After drying myself off, I left the bathroom and went into my bedroom. My room was freezing compared to the steaming bathroom. Tossing my towel onto the floor, I dug through my drawers and pulled out a pair of black fleece pajama bottoms and an oversized "Chicago" t-shirt, sue me, I like musicals.

Going into the kitchen, I opened the pantry, which is next to the fridge. Inside sat a small bag of cat food and an empty bowl. Shoving the bowl into the bag, I scooped out some food. Making my way toward the door, I opened it. Just off to the side was the neighborhood stray. At tabby with lamp light eyes, I had taken to calling him Jack. Kneeling down I scratched him behind the ear. Causing the tomcat to purr happily, smiling I set down his food dish and went back inside, after a swift look at door 121.

Returning to the kitchen, I started to make myself some dinner. After about an hour I had made some chicken stew, I also heated up some french bread. Setting my bowl of soup onto the stained coffee table in the living room; which is just a dining room, living room and kitchen combined. Grabbing the remote I turned on the T.V. and listlessly started flipping through the various channels. "News, talk show, soap opera, Fox….Boring, boring, stupid…Ooh comedy central!"

So while I ate I enjoyed an amazing marathon of Scrubs. It was my favorite show at the moment; it was smart but stupid, a perfect combination for a good laugh. When the marathon ended at 11 o'clock, I flipped over to the news. As usual it was depressing and filled with a combination of facts and Batman hokum. I have nothing against the guy, but the media coverage on him was insane. It was tie-dye of the barest minimum of facts, and a plethora of rumors and superstitious crap.

But despite all the rumors about him, the Bat was doing wonders for the city. I've noticed that murders have gone down a good amount; which makes my life a hell of a lot easier. When the news ended, I flipped off the T.V. Got up, checked every single lock on every window and door, turned off the lights and went to bed. An end to a day in the life of Bianca Faun, and tomorrow would be another fun filled day, I couldn't wait. Notice that I say that with a heaping amount of sarcasm.


	6. Halloween Night

The rest of the week passed without much incident. Of course I had to go to a couple meetings with The Commissioner to discuss court dates. It actually surprised me that I was not receiving any bodies this week, what with Halloween being this Saturday. Normally Joker liked to escape to cause fear and mayhem, but I suppose he got his fill with Rebecca, that and the fact that his recent violent behavior may have caused the doctors at Arkham to give him a higher dose of meds. I honestly can't be sure, all one can do is assume what goes on in that hell hole.

Weekends were my days off, like any other person I require a bit of 'me' time so as to stay sane. However, I'm still on call if a certain situation is too much for Markus to handle, or it simply can't wait till Monday morning.

As I stated earlier, Halloween is usually a busy night for both the cops and the forensic pathologists in the area. It was normally Scarecrow's night, but with him being 'reintroduced' into society. I expect a calm evening of tricks and treats as well as annoying punks in costumes begging for candy…. I really don't like kids. One year I wasn't able to hand out candy because I was having money problems….. The little shits sprayed graffiti all over my door, and I ended up paying for the damage. After that little incident, I'd developed a vast dislike for Halloween.

To avoid the little begging twits, I figured I'd pay a visit to The Centerfold a few miles down the street. It lives up to its semi crass name, it's cheap and dirty (piece of advice, do not order the chili dogs, it's not chili they're putting on those dogs.) However the place makes a mean plate of blue cheese French fries and has a decent beer selection. I haven't had a good drink in quite a while, so I figured what the hell, might as well have some fun.

At around 8 pm I changed from my sweats and ratty t-shirt into a more presentable outfit…. Don't judge me, its society that insists that women pretty themselves before they go out in public. Besides, without a decent cover-up I would be showing the terrible bags under my eyes as well as the dark circles.

The outfit I chose was composed of a pair of old jeans, and a red and black stripped tank top. Very plain, meaning that I wouldn't be drawing attention to myself, if you haven't guessed. I intend to walk to The Centerfold, it was only a couple miles, parking was a pain in the ass at this time of night, and I intended to have a few drinks. Despite the fact that the Gotham P.D. have better things to do, they still crack down on drunk driving.

So at 8:30 I was off to enjoy some me time. As I walked past 121, I saw a shadow of what I can only assume was Crane, from what I could deduce, it seemed he was reading a book. Having him as a neighbor is hardly healthy. I kept having nightmares, and it wasn't the usual shrieking cadaver dreams. No, it was of Crane, more specifically Fear Night.

I was there in the Narrows that fateful evening, when the fear gas took over the entire island. I saw my true fears, and for the life of me, I don't remember what they are. All I remember from that night was the screaming, and the people downing each other left and right. I recall that I hid myself from the roving mob of hallucinating civilians. For some reason I recall passing out, the rest of the night continued with me unconscious. The next day, the cops found me, and shot me up with the antidote. Or so Gordon told me. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the hospital.

Shuddering at the memories, I walked by 121 and made my way downstairs. Passing my car I headed for the sidewalk, going in the direction of The Centerfold. Despite it being the annual night of Scarecrow and Joker pranks. Halloween was probably the safest night in Gotham. Of course that comparing it to the usual dangers of after dark, so that isn't saying much. But I was armed with my trusty taser, which wasn't lethal of course, but if something were to happen, well at least it would buy me some time to run like a mad woman.

As I walked, I saw several packs of kids in lame costumes. Their frenzied mothers a few steps behind them, guiding spirits in a dangerous place. Those punks were lucky I wasn't there mother. I had a feeling that my being a mother would drive a little devil spawn ape shit; I probably wouldn't even let the kid go out on Halloween. I'd seen the monsters in the dark, and I'd be damned if I was going to release my own flesh and blood into the pit of hell. Good thing I didn't like kids, because I would be a terribly paranoid mother.

Turning right at the intersection, I continued my walk, until I reached a shady looking building. Above the entrance, in blood red letters was "The Centerfold." Smirking at the lit up picture of a 1940 style pin up, I went inside. The place was dimly lit and a thick layer of cigarette smoke permeated the place. Usually this spot was a ghost town, but with it being Halloween, it was filled to the brim with a variety of people.

Pushing my way to the bar, I snagged an empty seat and sat down, shrugging my jacket onto the back of the chair. Looking around for John, the owner of the place as well as one of my few friends (I met him after a particularly nasty bar fight a year into my employment.)

Spotting a shock of dark blue hair in the dim light, I waved a hand, hailing John over. Despite being in his early forties, the man had a running addiction to hair dye. Tonight it was midnight blue and pulled back in low ponytail. Seeing me, he smiled and walked over. "Hey Bianca, haven't seen you in a while."

Quirking an eyebrow I replied. "Do I have to explain to you that I'm busy?"

Rolling his eyes he leaned back and folded his arms. "The usual blue cheese fries, and to drink?"

Glancing at the Halloween drink list I scanned through the ridiculous names. I actually found a section with a Rogues Gallery theme. Under that segment I found drinks like 'Bloody Harley'; did I forget to mention John had a cruel sense of humor? There was also something called 'A Glass of Fear' which I guess was John's spin on Absinthe. Rolling my eyes I glared at John. "You do realize how insulting these are? I mean a 'Bloody Harley.' Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Smirking, the young bar owner countered. "Its Halloween Bianca, where's your holiday cheer?"

Tossing the drink menu at him, I grumbled. "Nonexistent, get me a plate of those blue cheese fries and a Dead Guy Ale." Taking the menu, John winked at me. "You got it B."

Why is it that I keep running into idiots who think it's funny to joke around about the Rogues? I admit it, ok! I am terrified of those nutters. I was one of the few people who actually had conversations with those monsters, who went up against them in court in a never ending battle to put them on death row. In my opinion, every single one of them, are past the rehabilitation stage, to far over the edge to save. And as fate would have it, I was currently living next to one…. Fate is a bitch.

It wasn't long until I had my order in front of me. So in the mess of yelling college students and horny old men scoping out young and naïve tail, I ate my way through the fries and drank two bottles of Dead Guy Ale. Personally, I am not one for getting shit faced drunk, but I do enjoy a good buzz now and again. And at the moment it felt great, being like this left me carefree and blissful. But I was still sober enough to refuse a suspicious fizzing martini from an obvious rapist.

It was close to ten thirty by the time I made it back to the apartment building. I confess that I went little bit over my usual drinking limit, I was a tad more than buzzed. As I walked up to the third floor, a very humorous sight greeted me.

Crane was on his knees, a wet sponge in hand, and pale of soapy water off to the side. Looks like someone didn't hand out candy. Despite my fear of the man, I started to giggle. This clued Crane in on my presence. Stopping his scrubbing he glared over at me. "You think this is funny?"

Swaying a bit, I held my hand up; allowing my fingers to indicate that the scene was in fact a tad bit funny. Another giggle passed my lips, and was later accompanied by an unpleasant snort of laughter. Crane growled and returned to the task at hand.

It must have been the three ales that I downed, but I actually felt sorry for the skinny freak. Biting my lower lip, I walked over to Crane and went down on my hands and knees. Grabbing a second sponge from the bucket, I began to scrub at the graffiti. It seemed that my neighbor was not accustom to receiving help (not including psychiatric help, Ha, get it?) He stared at me for a couple seconds, his cold eyes exhibiting surprise.

For about twenty minutes, the two of us scrubbed at the door, neither of us spoke. But the graffiti Jack O Lantern refused to come off. It remained on the door, laughing at our pathetic attempts and making a rather inappropriate gesture involving its middle finger. Pulling back onto my knees I threw the sponge into the bucket. "We're going to have to paint over it… Hold on a second."

Crane watched as I slowly made my way to my apartment. I didn't bother closing the door, seeing that I intended to go back outside. Throwing my jacket and purse onto the coat rack, I went into my room. Throwing the closet door open I began to sift through the piles of wrinkled clothes and mismatched shoes. My fingers made contact with an old zip lock bag. Pulling it out of the mess, I smiled in triumph. My stash of white spray paint from the year my door got tagged.

Throwing the bag onto my bed, I stripped my off my tank top and threw on my ratty t-shirt from this morning. That taken care of, I went back outside. I found Crane standing awkwardly by his door, glaring at the offending pumpkin on his door. Digging into the plastic bag, I pulled out one of the four cans of white spray paint. "Think fast Crane."

He looked up and caught the can before it smacked him in the face. "Why do you have so many cans of spray paint?"

Smirking, I opened up one of the cans. "One year, I didn't have enough money to buy candy for the little shits, and they tagged my door."

Aiming at the door, I began to paint over the crude image. Good thing I decided to stash up on the paint I used. From what I can remember this stuff is fantastic for painting over bright colors. So, during the last few hours of Halloween, I spent it spray painting with the so called Master of Fear; Jonathan Crane.


End file.
